The Power Within Us

The Power Within Us 

A new year had come. No big fireworks, no bright laughter, not even a small piece of cake: an odd new year.

I glanced around the small attic bedroom that my family shared. ​​The attic was cold and boring except for the occasional frightening rats and the spider webs in the corner. A strip of moonlight fell through a crack at the base of the small window, a little bit of the world hidden to us. I closed my eyes and restlessly slept until morning.

BANG!

BANG!

I woke up with a jump, arms and legs flailing. I looked up, and saw my sister’s eyes wide open, glazed with fear. Glancing at my parents, they frantically motioned for us to follow them. The four of us crouched quietly behind the closet, obscured. Someone was here.

Only one thought rang in my head. The Nazis! It was the year 1940, exactly one year since the Nazis had forced Jewish families into hiding.

The sound of a gunshot pierced my ears. The door was kicked down with a slam, and we could hear the moaning and groaning of our neighbors, the Andersens.

A Nazi soldier demanded in a harsh German accent, “Where are they?,” prodding at our neighbors with his rifle

Mr. Andersen shook his head. The soldier snarled viciously and kicked Mr. Andersen in the face, breaking his nose. Our neighbor’s kind face was suddenly blotted with blood, like ice cream splattered on the sidewalk.

“Tell me where they are and you won’t suffer.”

“Let us go, and I’ll tell you where they are,” Mrs. Andersen said boldly, not a waiver in her voice. I feared this was the end. She would give us up. Why wouldn’t she?

One man undid their tied hands, but stood close, rifle pointed at their heads. Mrs. Andersen massaged the harsh, red indentations from the rope on her hands.

“We heard they have friends who are in the Resistance, who smuggled them to Sweden.”

The soldier’s face reddened with rage. He kicked Mrs. Andersen’s stomach and she doubled over with agony. “Imbeciles. You’ll be fined for hiding this information. We’re watching you. This won’t go unpunished.” He left the room nodding curtly towards his men and drove out into the dark.

After some time, my mother crawled out of our hiding place and hugged Mrs. Andersen.

“We were lucky they believed you. Please forgive us for bringing this on you. We’ll go to Sweden, you’ll be more safe without us.”

Panic seized me. I looked at my sister; neither of us wanted to go to Sweden. Mr. Andersen shook his head and said “We told them you’re in Sweden. If you go, they’ll find you”

We all looked at each other, unsure of what to do. The adults began to pace the room anxiously. I could do nothing more than stare at the stained floors of the attic. Until in a soft voice, Mrs. Andersen called out to us.

“Children?”

We walked over to her, legs unsteady and knees wobbly. She kneeled down to our level, placing a hand on our shoulders.

“Just remember, in times of great peril, you must stick together and help each other and others. Be compassionate and caring. That is what we have that they don’t. Use their disadvantage to your advantage.”

We looked at her with wide eyes. The three of us remained in the corner of the room as she maintained eye contact with us, gaze sharp, mouth pressed into a thin line. At last, she nodded with a slight smile.

***

It had been two months since the Nazi had almost caught us when one day, Mr. Andersen came home, his face grim. Through the long months of the war, the wrinkles around his mouth and forehead had grown more pronounced with worry, with anticipation of when the Nazis would be back. He quietly talked to his wife, eyes darting around.

Later, the next morning, he came up to the attic. Expression solemn, he said, “We’re sorry, but your family’s name is on the Nazi list of missing Jews. You must leave and save yourselves while you can.” Soon after, he left for work. That was the last time we saw him.

It was arranged that Mrs. Andersen and the Resistance would smuggle us to the free zone in France. In the free zone, another family would be waiting to take us in.

She hugged each of us tightly, before saying, “We will surely meet again soon.”

Her words were encouraging as we all exchanged our goodbyes, but we knew it was unlikely. And with that, we went off into the dead of the night with only the light of the stars to guide us.

***

We hiked for the longest time in the dark. We were hungry, but we didn’t dare to open our bags as we had to ration our food carefully. After an hour, we reached a cliff where we were supposed to wait for a man with a red hat and a dark blue jacket.

Finally, as the sun rose, a young man who appeared to be in his twenties, emerged from the trees. His name was Phillipe, and he matched the description perfectly. Behind him a young family, all with light brown hair, followed. They had a girl about my age, Eliza Baum. She was eleven and had been hiking with Philippe and her parents for two months from her home in Sweden, barely escaping the Nazis.

Mrs. Andersen’s advice from that fateful night kept ringing in my ears as I befriended the girl, trying to make us both comfortable and in good spirits.

For weeks we all hiked as Philippe repeated, “Keep on walking. We have to go to the free zone.”

But where our journey had just begun, Eliza, worn down, was hiking with her family for months. I could hardly imagine how she felt. She had no real home or shelter, just the dark lonely woods. On top of that, none of us knew what the free zone would even be like. But just as Mrs. Andersen said, I kept reassuring her, repeating that if we stick together, all will be well.

***

After three weeks, our resources were low. We all were filthy, disheveled, and hungry with torn clothes and ripped shoes. My once soft and clean hands were now calloused and grimy. My hair was matted, lightened from the sun’s harsh rays. We camped in the woods in two tents, settling along a river that we followed and where we got our water from. For days, we chalked out alternate escape routes on our maps in case the Nazis found us. Thinking back to my days as a happy schoolgirl, I could’ve never imagined living in the woods like this.

***

Phillippe, despite not being Jewish nor a target himself, made sure we were taken care of, teaching us how to fish, guiding us, and telling Eliza and I stories of days in his village. Each night, he and Mrs. Baum would cook in a small fire for us. In him and his kind smile, I saw the compassion and caring that Mrs Anderson had talked about.

If everyone was like this, there was no way we wouldn’t win the war.

***

It was almost dark when we saw a small village lit up with simmering cottage lights, a gateway to Heaven after an eternity in Hell.

“Welcome to my village, Ville-de-Joyaux: the best in Paris,” Phillipe proclaimed, his eyes shining. “My family has a few large, empty rooms where you can stay until the war is over.”

Nothing could keep me from running down to his house, jubilant.

Phillipe’s home was grand and large with bright lights that were a beacon in the forest. It seemed like a palace compared to the tents we had lived in.

Eliza and I raced up the stairs where we saw the fanciest rooms. As I gazed around in joy and awe, the great advice I’d heard not so long ago echoed in my ears, “… you must stick together and help each other and others. Be compassionate and caring.”

Mrs. Andersen was right. There was no way any of this would have happened without the care of those we met along the way. The last few months, we went through the most treacherous path and uncertain times of our lives, but deep down, I knew we would get through it because we had each other.

With the war still raging on, we don’t know what the future holds for us. Our enemies might have more guns and ammunition, but we have more power — the power of compassion, empathy, and grit to overcome any hurdles. No one can take that away from us.

Author's Note: I've always been interested in the Holocaust, but more than the politics behind it, I've been more intrigued by the stories of the people who lived during that time. When I wrote this story, two years ago I started reading Anne Frank's diary. I wanted to learn how a child, around my age dealt with antisemitism. I wanted to hear the stories of the people who dealt with this, especially children. So this story was my interpretation of the hidden meanings and lessons from the Holocaust. 

P.S. — Check out more of my work on Medium! https://medium.com/@shivali.patra